Painful Affairs
by Arcturus-Sinclair
Summary: Rossi's drinking has gotten out of hand, and it's having a devastating effect on Hotch. Has Hotch reached his breaking point? Warnings for Slash and violence.


A/N: This is slash, and violent. There, have more warnings. Also I own nothing. Sadly.

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A glass shattered into the wall next to Hotch's head, and then a hand shot out and slapped him across the face.

That hand belonged to none other than his lover, David Rossi. Rossi had been drinking, and when he drank in excess he became nasty and violent. He was fine with between two and four drinks, normally, but, beyond that he became nastier and more violent. And Hotch was normally the target of that violence.

Hotch had no delusions about the relationship. He knew what Rossi was doing was abuse. He also knew his staying was stupid. But, he loved the man, despite all his shortcomings so he stayed. And this was his punishment. He was just glad he'd kept Jack at Jessica's for the evening.

"Dave!" he cried. "Stop it!" He knew fighting back was stupid, but after all the years of abuse from his father, he didn't want to deal with it from the man he loved.

Rossi's eyes darkened even more, if that was possible, and he swung his fist into Hotch's jaw. "Shut the fuck up!" he spat, venomously. His voice was slurred, but understandable. His body was swaying a bit, as he stood there, glowering at Hotch. He then pinned Hotch to the wall, getting in his face. "You're worthless, you know. The only thing you're good at is fucking up." His voice was cold, and factual.

Hotch held his jaw, silently cursing. He shoved at the arm pinning him to the wall, but Rossi outweighed him. He'd be lying to himself if he said he wasn't afraid at all. But, his anger at being used was overpowering his fear. He tried to wrench his body away, but a fist to his stomach doubled him over. He swallowed against the bile that rose, distantly hearing Rossi calling him names. The arm fell away and he put his hands on his thighs to keep from falling.

Rossi seemed to notice the broken glass for the first time, and shoved Hotch towards it. "Clean it," he nearly snarled. He turned and stumbled slightly as he went over to the bar to get yet another bourbon. He caught himself on the bar, and righted himself.

Hotch barely reacted to the tone, and moved to clean up the glass—seeming almost robotic. He walked over to the trash can and dropped the shards in, not caring if he got cut at the moment. His thoughts were whirling. He couldn't take much more of this. But, could he really leave Dave?

He was pulled from his musings by a loud thump. He whirled around to see that Rossi had fallen over, and quickly rushed over to help him. He wrapped his arms around Rossi's waist and pulled him up.

Rossi felt the arms around his waist and once standing, shoved Hotch back roughly, making him slam into the corner of the counter. "Keep your fucking hands off of me!" His hands balled into fists as he stood there, waiting for Hotch to fight back, anything that would make his fists fly.

Hotch hit the corner, hard. So hard it brought tears to his eyes and took his breath away. He closed his eyes against the pain, sub-consciously waiting for the next blow. There was a small part of his mind that refused to hurt the elder profiler. The more logical part of his brain pointed out that he could have Stockholm's Syndrome, but there wasn't much he could do…

He stiffened his body, and didn't relax, even when no blow came. His heart shattered every time Rossi drank, but somehow repaired itself in the time between.

Rossi noted the lack of fear in his eyes and smirked, viciously. He got into Hotch's face and slapped him, hard. "You think you're all that? You'd be _nothing_ without me. Nothing." His body was swaying worse, since the last drink, so he was brushing up against Hotch, a lot.

Hotch wanted to do nothing more than pull Rossi against him, for his own comfort. He felt his lip split with the last blow, and recoiled visibly. "I sure as hell got along when you retired, Dave." His voice was steady, despite his fear. He swallowed, tasting the blood from his lip.

"Oh, look. You do bleed. Let me ask you something," Rossi nearly purred. He stepped forward, his chest touching Hotch's. His voice became a whisper, and more brutal. "Am I reminding you of Foyet, yet?" The look on his face was taunting.

That was a low blow, even for a drunken Rossi. Hotch's face paled, and he tried to step back, to no avail. He otherwise kept his composure. Actually, he had the same mindset as when facing down Foyet. Show him no fear.

Rossi grabbed a good chunk of his hair, before shoving him back so he was bending backwards over the counter. "Answer me, you worthless piece of shit!" He was leaning so his full body weight was against the younger man, and their faces were inches apart.

Hotch swallowed. "No." It was a simple response. He wasn't sure if it was a truthful one, but he didn't look at Rossi and think of Foyet, so it must have been the truth. The weight was smothering him and he shoved Rossi backwards and slid away from the counter. He didn't want to be trapped under Rossi while he was like this. He was understandably terrified. He refused to show that, or lose any more control than he'd already lost.

Rossi grabbed Hotch, or tried to, anyway. He ended up knocking them both down. For a moment, he just laid on top of Hotch, stunned. Then the irrational fury kicked in again and his hands wrapped around Hotch's neck, cutting off his airway.

Hotch's body jerked the second his airway closed, and a strangled gasp escaped his lips. He struggled fruitlessly, fear beginning to override his calm façade. His body jackknifed as his lungs tried to get any sort of oxygen.

Rossi held his neck for a moment longer, before bringing his knee hard into Hotch's stomach. He smirked at the reactions he was now getting. He continued to straddle Hotch's waist. He ground hard against him, his eyes blazing.

Hotch gasped roughly, trying to suck in as much air as he could. He was shaking faintly, his breathing erratic. He didn't bother to ask why. He knew there would be no logical answer. Sure, it probably made sense in Rossi's drunken mind…

He felt Rossi's hardness against his stomach and cringed inwardly. That was the last thing on his mind, but as the logical part of his mind pointed out, alcohol made some people more sexually inclined. His heart felt like it was going to beat out of his chest, and the urge to run was becoming overpowering. He didn't like the way he was feeling, he was normally the strong one. The one in control.

He winced when Rossi slammed his hips against him again. A moment later, Rossi's weight left him and he was pulled up by his hair. He heard the distinct sound of a zipper being pulled down and tried to pull back.

Rossi slapped him across the face, and then pulled his fully hard length out. "Suck it," he ordered. When Hotch didn't move fast enough for his liking, he pulled his head forward, still gripping his head, and forced it into his mouth.

Hotch gaged and flinched. He tried to pull back, but Rossi's grip was too tight. He struggled slightly for a moment before giving up. He began moving his head quickly, just wanting this to end.

Rossi thrust into Hotch's mouth, groaning. He set a brutal pace, not caring if Hotch gagged. His own pleasure was the only thing on his mind. He wasn't going to last long, due to how much alcohol was in his system. He moaned as his climax approached.

Hotch swirled his tongue around the tip of Rossi's length, keeping his eyes closed. He felt Rossi's body tense and semen hit his throat. He started swallowing to keep from choking. He allowed Rossi's spent member to slip out of his mouth and took a few more deep breaths.

Rossi's body slowly swayed then fell into Hotch, knocking them both down. Hotch shook him briefly before realizing he'd finally passed out. He slid out from under the elder profiler and pulled him up.

After a bit of maneuvering, Hotch managed to get Rossi into bed, and covered him up. He then mechanically went back in and began cleaning up the bottles and glasses.

Once he finished, he went over to the couch and dropped down heavily on it. He ran his fingers through his hair, sighing. He couldn't keep dealing with this, every weekend or so. He'd go insane. But, honestly, what could he do? He couldn't tell anyone. Morgan would flip shit on Rossi, an explosion Hotch didn't need. And Reid wasn't capable of doing anything. So…he was stuck.

Well, tomorrow was a new day. Tomorrow he'd need to find a way to hide the split lip. Tomorrow he'd need to seem himself in front of a group of profilers.

And…tomorrow, Hotch would try to figure out whether he could stay without entirely losing his heart…

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A/N: Well, this forced its way into my mind and refused to leave. It seems a little out of character, but I'm picky. I tried to stay as in character as much as possible. -sweatdrops- Hope you guys liked it.


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